Roots (69 page)

“Massa, Massa, it too soon,” she pleaded tearfully. “I ain’t healed up right yet, Massa!” But when he simply ignored her, she struggled only long enough to put out the candle, after which she endured the ordeal quietly, terrified that the baby would awaken. She was relieved that he still seemed to be sleeping even when the massa spent himself, and then was clambering up, preparing to go. In the darkness, as he snapped his suspenders onto his shoulders, he said, “Well, got to call him something—” Kizzy lay with her breath sucked in. After another moment, he said, “Call him George—that’s after the hardest-working nigger I ever saw.” After another pause, the massa continued, as if talking to himself, “George. Yeah. To-morrow I’ll write it in my Bible. Yeah, that’s a good name—George!” And he went on out.

Kizzy cleaned herself off and then lay back down, unsure which outrage to be most furious about. She had thought earlier of either “Kunta” or “Kinte” as ideal names, though uncertain of what the massa’s reaction might be to their uncommon sounds. But she dared not risk igniting his temper with any objection to the name
he’d chosen. She thought with a new horror of what her African pappy would think of it, knowing what importance he attached to names. Kizzy remembered how her pappy had told her that in his homeland, the naming of sons was the most important thing of all, “ ’
cause de sons becomes dey families’ mens!”

She lay thinking of how she had never understood why her pappy had always felt so bitter against the world of white people—“toubob” was his word for them. She thought of Bell’s saying to her, “You’s so lucky it scare me, chile, ’cause you don’ really know what bein’ a nigger is, an’ I hopes to de good Lawd you don’ never have to fin’ out.” Well, she had found out—and there seemed no limit to the anguish whites were capable of wreaking upon black people. But the worst thing they did, Kunta had said, was to keep them ignorant of who they are, to keep them from being fully human.

“De reason yo’ pappy took holt of my feelin’s from de firs’,” her mammy had told her, “was he de proudest black man I ever seed!” Before she fell asleep, Kizzy decided that however base her baby’s origins, however light his color, whatever name the massa forced upon him, she would never regard him as other than the grandson of an African.

S
ince Uncle Pompey had never said much beyond “How do?” to Kizzy when he saw her in the mornings, she was surprised and deeply touched when she arrived in the field with her baby on her first day back at work. Uncle Pompey approached her shyly and, touching the brim of his sweat-stained straw hat, pointed toward the trees at the edge of the field. “Figgered you could put de baby under dere,” he said. Not sure what he meant, Kizzy squinted and saw something beneath one of the trees. Her eyes were soon glistening with tears, for when she walked over to it, she saw that it was a little lean-to, its top thatched with freshly cut long grass, thick-stemmed weeds, and green leaves.

Gratefully Kizzy spread her clean crocus sack upon the sheltered leafy cushion and laid the baby on it. He cried briefly, but with her comforting sounds and pats, soon he was gurgling and inspecting his fingers. Rejoining her two companions, who were working in the tobacco, she said, “Sho’ ’preciates dat, Uncle Pompey.” He grunted and chopped faster, trying to conceal his embarrassment. At intervals Kizzy would hurry over and check on her baby, and about every three hours, when it began crying, she would sit down and let it nurse at one of her breasts, which were taut with milk.

“Yo’ baby jes’ perkin’ us all up, ’cause sho’ ain’t nothin’ else roun’ here to pay no ’tention,” Sister Sarah said a few days later, addressing
Kizzy but casting a sly eye at Uncle Pompey, whose return look was as if at some persistent mosquito. By now, when each workday ended with the setting sun, Sister Sarah insisted on carrying the baby as Kizzy took their two hoes for the tired trudge back to slave row, which was nothing more than four small boxlike, one-win-dowed cabins near a large chinquapin tree. Usually, the early darkness would have fallen by the time Kizzy hurriedly lighted sticks in her small fireplace to cook something from her remaining rations, which were issued each Saturday morning by Massa Lea. Eating quickly, she would lie down on her cornshuck mattress, playing with George but not nursing him until hunger made him start bawling. Then, encouraging him to drink to his fullest, she would hold him over her shoulder, rubbing his back to help him burp, and then she would play with him again. She kept them both awake as late as she could, wanting the baby to sleep as long as possible before he would awaken for his next night feeding. It was during this interim that—twice or three times weekly—the massa would come to force himself upon her. He would always smell of liquor, but she had decided—for the sake of the baby as well as her own—not to try resisting him anymore. Filled with loathing, she would lie cold and still, with her legs apart, as he took of her his grunting pleasure. When it ended and he got up, she would keep lying there with her eyes closed—hearing the dime or sometimes the quarter that he would always drop on her table—until he left. Kizzy would wonder if the missis, too, was lying awake in the big house, which was close enough to be within earshot; what must she think, how must she feel, when the massa came to their bed still smelling of another woman?

Finally, after nursing George twice again before daybreak, she fell into a deep sleep—just in time to be roused by Uncle Pompey knocking at the door to wake her up. Kizzy ate breakfast and
nursed the baby again before Sister Sarah arrived to carry him out to one of the fields. There was a separate field for corn, tobacco, and cotton, and Uncle Pompey had by now constructed a little tree-shaded shelter at the edge of each one.

When the massa and missis finished their midday meal on Sunday, they always left soon after for their weekly buggy ride, and while they were gone, slave row’s handful of folk would gather round the chinquapin tree for an hour of visiting. Now that Kizzy and her son had joined them, Miss Malizy and Sister Sarah would promptly begin their tug-of-war over who would get to hold the restless George. Uncle Pompey, who sat puffing his pipe, seemed to enjoy talking to Kizzy, perhaps because she’d listen to him with far fewer interruptions and far more respect than the two older women would.

“Dis place weren’t nothin’ but jes’ woods worth ’bout fifty cents a acre,” said Pompey one afternoon, “when massa got his firs’ thirty acres an’ his firs’ nigger name George, same as yo’ young’un here. He jes’ plain worked dat nigger to death.” Seeing Kizzy gasp, Uncle Pompey halted. “Sump’n de matter?” he asked.

“Nawsuh, nothin’!” Kizzy quickly collected herself, and Uncle Pompey continued.

“When I come here, massa’d done had dat po’ nigger a year, cut-tin’ trees, gougin’ up stumps, clearin’ brush enough to plow an’ plant to make his first crop. Den one day me an’ dat nigger was sawin’ logs into de very planks in dat big house yonder.” Uncle Pompey pointed. “Lawd, I heard dis ’culiar sound an’ glanced up from my end o’ de saw. Dis George nigger’s eyes was rollin’, he grab at his chest, an’ drop down dead—jes’ like dat.”

Kizzy changed the subject. “Every since I come here, been hearin’ y’all go on ’bout fightin’ chickens. Ain’t hardly heared ’bout none befo’—”

“Well, I’se sho’ heared massa say dey fights a-plenty o’ ’em in dat Virginia,” said Miss Malizy. “Reckon it jes’ wasn’t nowhere close where you was at.”

“Don’t none us know no whole lot ’bout ’em here, neither,” said Uncle Pompey. “ ’ceptin’ dey’s jes’ some special kin’ of roosters born an’ bred to kill one ’nother, an’ mens gambles whole lots of money on ’em.”

Sister Sarah chimed in. “Onliest somebody could tell you mo’’bout ’em is dat ol’ Mingo nigger what live down dere wid dem chickens.”

Seeing Kizzy’s open-mouthed surprise, Miss Malizy exclaimed, “Done tol’ you dat firs’ day you got here. You jes’ ain’t seed ’im yet.” She laughed. “And you might not
never
see ’im!”

“I been here fo’teen years,” said Sister Sarah, “an’ I ain’t seed dat nigger mo’n eight, ten times! He jes’ ruther be ’mongst chickens dan peoples! Hmph!” she snorted. “Fact, I specks his mammy
hatched
him!”

While Kizzy joined in the laughter, Sister Sarah leaned toward Miss Malizy, her arms outstretched. “Here, lemme hol’ dat chile awhile.” Grudgingly, Miss Malizy relinquished the baby.

“Well, anyhow,” she said, “dem chickens sho’ took massa an’ missis from bein’ raggedy to ridin’ roun’ here puttin’ on sich big airs now.” She made a mimicking grand gesture. “Dat’s massa throwin’ up his hand when dey buggy passin’ some rich massas’ carriages!” Her finger resembled a butterfly in motion. “Dat’s missis’ handkerchief a-flutterin’ ’til she ’bout to fall out’n de buggy!”

Amid the loud guffawing, Miss Malizy needed a while to recover herself. Then, as she reached out to take the baby back, Sister Sarah snapped, “You wait! I ain’t had ’im but a minute!”

It delighted Kizzy to see them compete over her child, and to watch Uncle Pompey watching quietly, then beaming instantly if the baby happened to look his way, when he would make funny
faces or movements with his fingers to hold the child’s attention. George was crawling around one Sunday a few months later when he started crying to nurse. Kizzy was about to lift him when Miss Malizy said, “Let ’im hol’ on jes’ a bit, honey. Dat boy big enough to start eatin’ sump’n now.” Hurrying to her cabin, Miss Malizy returned in a few moments, and they all watched as she used the back of a teaspoon to mash a half teacup of cornbread and potlikker into a mush. Then, lifting George onto her ample lap, she spooned a tiny portion into his mouth. They all beamed as he wolfed it down and smacked his lips in eagerness for more.

With George now starting to explore on all fours when they were out in the fields, Kizzy tied a length of small rope about his waist to limit his range, but she soon discovered that even within its reach, he was picking up and eating dirt and crawling insects. They all agreed that something had to be done. “Since he ain’ got to nuss no mo’,” Miss Malizy suggested, “seem like if you leaves’im wid me, I can keep a good eye on ’im whilst you’s in de fiel’.” Even Sister Sarah thought that made sense, and as much as Kizzy hated to, she began delivering George to the big-house kitchen before she left each morning, then retrieving him when she returned. She almost wavered about her decision when George’s first recognizable word was “Mi’lize,” but soon after he clearly said “Mammy,” thrilling Kizzy to the core. Then his next word was “Unka’pomp,” which made the old man look like he’d swallowed the sunshine. And that was soon followed by “Sis’sira.”

At one year, George was walking without assistance. By fifteen months he was even romping about, clearly reveling in the sheer joy of being at last independent and on his own. Now he seldom permitted any of them to hold him, unless he was sleepy or didn’t feel well, which was rare, for he was fairly bursting with health and growth, thanks in no small part to his daily stuffing by Miss Malizy with the best fare that the kitchen could afford. Now during
Sunday afternoons, as Kizzy and the other three doting adults carried on their conversation, they feasted their eyes on the boy waddling around, playing happily alone, with his soon baggy-wet diapers shortly matching the dirt in color. George was as delighted with tasting a twig as with catching a beetle or with chasing a dragonfly, the yard cat, or the chickens—which he sent clucking off in alarm to find another scratching place. One Sunday the three women held their sides in laughter at the spectacle of the usually somber Uncle Pompey loping awkwardly for short distances trying to get a light breeze to lift the kite he had made for the fascinated boy. “Lem’me tell you, gal, you don’t really know what you seein’ yonder,” Sister Sarah remarked to Kizzy. “Fo’ dat chile come here, once Pompey got in his cabin, we wouldn’t hardly see ’im no mo’ ’til de mornin’.”

“De truth!” said Miss Malizy. “I ain’t even knowed Pompey had no fun in ’im!”

“Well, I know I sho’ felt good when he put up dem l’il shelters for George when I first brung ’im to de fiel’s,” said Kizzy.

“
You
feel good! Dat chile doin’ us
all
good!” said Sister Sarah.

Uncle Pompey further claimed George’s attention when he began telling him stories at the age of two. With the Sunday sun setting and the evening turning cool, Pompey would build a small, smoky fire of green wood to discourage the mosquitoes as the three women would position their chairs around the fire. Then George would find his most comfortable position to watch the mobile face and gesturing hands of Uncle Pompey as he told of “Br’er Rabbit” and “Br’er Bear,” in time drawing upon such a seeming endless wealth of tales that once Sister Sarah was moved to exclaim, “Ain’t never dreamt you knowed all dem stories!” Uncle Pompey gave her a cryptic glance and said, “Whole
heap
o’ things’bout me you don’t know.” Sister Sarah, flouncing her head, affected great disgust. “Hmph! Sho’ ain’t nobody tryin’ to fin’ out!”
Uncle Pompey puffed solemnly at his pipe, his crinkled eyes laughing.

“Miss Malizy, I gwine say sump’n to you,” Kizzy declared one day. “Sister Sarah an’ Uncle Pompey always carryin’ on like dey gits on each other’s nerves. But sometimes I gits de feelin’ it’s sump’n like dey way of courtin’ one ’nother—”

“Chile, I don’t know. I know neither of ’em wouldn’t never say if it was. But I speck dey jes’ makin’ some fun to pass de time, ’dat’s all. You git ol’ as we is an’ ain’t got yo’self nobody, you done jes’ got used to it, since seem like ain’t nothin’ you can do ’bout it nohow.” Miss Malizy’s eyes searched Kizzy before she went on. “We’s ol’, an’ dat’s dat, but bein’ young like you, honey, an’ ain’t got nobody, dat’s different! I’se jes’
wished
massa’d buy somebody dat y’all could jes’ kin’ of nachel git together!”

“Yes’m, Miss Malizy, ain’t no need me actin’ like I don’t think’bout it, neither, ’cause I sho do.” Kizzy paused. She then said what she was certain they both knew. “But massa ain’t gwine do dat.” She felt a flash of appreciation that none of them had ever mentioned, or even hinted at, what they all must know still went on between her and the massa; at least they never mentioned it in her presence. “Since we’s talkin’ close,” she went on, “it was a man I knowed where I come from. I still thinks ’bout him a-plenty. We was gwine git married, but den everything got messed up. Fact, dat’s how come I got here.”